Beyond the Sea
by Riley Mourne
Summary: Their relationship has always been tumultuous, changing day to day and never quite defined. Friends or rivals, Shield-Siblings or enemies; she doesn't know. She trusts him - all of them - with her life. But never, in a thousand years, did she expect this.
1. Chapter 1

She stares at herself in the mirror, tepid water dripping from her chin and into the basin on her vanity. Her quarters in Jorrvaskr are frigid and lonely, ghosts of the past whispering in the darkened corners. She is almost certain she can hear Kodlak's patient timbre among them.

She is Harbinger now.

Elismyra scowls at herself, lip curling and thin brows drawing together. The old man had been out of his head, naming her, of all people, to take his place. She is no Nord, no warrior. She is a mage, born and bred for beauty and magic, not cavorting around bonfires, chugging mead and boasting of tales of valor. Her ways are not the Companions' ways, something Vilkas and Athis and Njada and Skjor had been sure to tell her, time and time again.

Golden fingertips reach out to touch the glass, tracing the outline of her obscenely pointed ear. A silver earring, studded with miniscule sapphires, winks in the candlelight. It had been a gift from her parents, when she had been accepted into the Arcane University in the Imperial City.

The she-elf blinks at her reflection, staring hard to try and see what her predecessor had taken such a shine to. Vivid green eyes stare back at her, slanted and rimmed in thick, black lashes. Her hair is dark and sanguine, a coveted shade of red among her own kind but shockingly out of place here. High, sharp cheekbones and a narrow jaw make her seem delicate, exotic, when faces here are full and round. Her lips are thin, her mouth wide. Skin a deep, healthy gold.

Had Kodlak forgotten it was her people Ysgramor had slaughtered? Her kind that he had vanquished and routed and driven out of their homes? His own axe, now restored, burned in her hands when she tried to carry it. Farkas had had to be the one to bear it to the tomb.

The Altmer sighs, dropping her head. She does not know what to do. The people here will never listen to her, too caught up in their own prejudices to heed her advice and guidance. She cannot entirely blame them; the elves and Nords have been at each other's throats since the dawn of time, and the Aldmeri Dominion's tyranny has certainly done nothing to soothe the horrors of centuries of war. No, she cannot truly be Harbinger, not in this era; perhaps, in two hundred years or so, she might return, see what became of the people she once knew.

But for now, her place is elsewhere.

Elismyra squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, regarding her reflection one last time. She looks proud and strong, able to bear the weight she has been forced to shoulder. The Greybeards called her months ago, and she has neglected their summons for too long. The Companions will not miss her; most will be glad to see her go. Aela and Farkas are perhaps the only two she will truly miss.

She does not think of Vilkas, and his proud bearing. She tells herself she will be glad to rid of him.

She turns from the mirror, to her bed and the open packs that rest there. Her clothes are folded neatly, waiting to be organized and tucked away for her long journey. A worn satchel slumps on the duvet, filled to the brim with potions and alchemy ingredients. Her belt lies, half draping off the bed, wrapped around her elven blade. Three daggers rest next to it, graceful and curving.

Her armor waits on its stand, polished and gleaming and beautiful. She had had Eorlund forge a special set for her, once she had gained the old man's respect. It looks remarkably like the Wolf Armor Vilkas favors, but it is thinner, lighter, quieter. The fur skirt is dyed a rich, royal blue, and there are no heavy pauldrons to clank about. Her cuirass, gauntlets, and boots are padded thickly with fur to keep her warm; she's been the butt of many jokes for her intolerance of Skyrim's perpetual cold. Silver vines are etched into the Skyforge steel, and the likeness of a wolf's head is carved just above the breast. There are strips of dyed leather beneath and between the steel plates to hush her movements. It is her most prized possession, and she regrets not thanking Gray-Mane properly for it.

Elismyra quietly sheds her nightclothes and begins armoring herself, careful to keep silent. It is late, very late, and she does not want to wake her sleeping comrades. She hates her cowardice for leaving in the dead of night, for not facing them as a proper Harbinger would. But, she supposes, she has always known she was never meant to lead them. Her silent escape only serves to drive the point home.

When she is finished, the she-elf packs her clothing and belts her sword around her hips. A gold and emerald circlet goes around her brow, and she sighs wantonly at the feel of the power it feeds her; her magic swirls and crashes in her stomach, buzzing with the desire to be freed. She slides her elven bow into its buckskin tube and slings it across her back, along with her quiver, buckling them across her chest. Her daggers are secreted away-one in each boot and the last strapped under her steel-pleated skirt, snug against her left thigh. She does not bother with food; she will hunt on the road and stop in any towns she might see when the wolf is at rest.

Her black travelling cloak is the last. Elismyra holds it in her hands, stroking it with her thumbs as she sighs. Her family crest is clasped at the throat, gleaming gold in the scant amount of light of her quarters. Two crossed swords encircled by a ring of fire.

She shakes her head. Throws the cloak around her shoulders. Clasps it beneath her chin. Pulls up the hood.

There is a folded piece of parchment on her nightstand. She looks at it for a moment before turning away.

With a wave of her hand, she muffles her footsteps. She walks through the abandoned halls of the living quarters, breathing in each scent and committing them to memory. Aela: snowberries and steel. Farkas: wind and blood. Ria: honey and juniper. Njada: sweat and iron. Athis: smoke and ash. Torvar: booze and desperation.

And Vilkas. Vilkas, who smells of old books and blotted ink and fresh pine. Vilkas, who hates her ruthless cunning and her magic and her love of the wolf inside. Who will argue and irk and egg her on for the sheer joy of it. Who trained her, who is her forebearer, whose smiles are hard-won but genuine. Who loves music but hates dancing.

Who wishes for blonde hair and pale skin and blue eyes and nothing even remotely like her.

Who is everything she never wanted but cannot help but wish for anyway.

She does not linger. As the door to the upstairs eases open, she closes her eyes and does not look back. And then she is gone.

* * *

><p>When Vilkas wakes in the early dawn, his bones telling him the sun will rise within the hour, he knows immediately something is amiss. Low voices hum through the hallways, the whelps just waking and grumbling about the day ahead. The smell of Tilma's cooking seeps through the wood, comforting in its familiarity. Farkas and Aela are already upstairs, speaking urgently to one another. He knows he should be concerned, but there is something else-not what is there that shouldn't be, but rather what isn't that should.<p>

He cannot smell the elf woman.

Most days, her scent is everywhere by the time the rest of them begin to stir, she being the earliest riser of them all and already out in the training yard, shooting lightning at the targets. But today, her smell is stale, leftover. As if she is still in bed.

Vilkas wants to snort; of course she would sleep in the first day of her role as Harbinger. He really shouldn't be surprised. He has never met someone so conceited and selfish, who strutted about as if they should all be grateful to bask in her presence. Abusing her new responsibilities is not unexpected.

The Nord shuffles down the hallway to her room, the door already open. He peers inside, mouth open to shout at her to get her ass out of bed, when he realizes the room is empty. Her covers are neatly made, her armoire is locked securely, the vanity cleared of any personal possessions. Her armor stand is stripped bare and there are no weapons lying about.

There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as Vilkas turns away, goes back to his room to dress, and hurries up the stairs to the dining hall. The whelps are still sluggish and lazily preparing themselves for the day, but Farkas and Aela are still standing about, speaking very quickly and quietly. He walks up to them, yawning.

The Huntress spares him a glance from the corner of her silver eyes. He raises a brow at her and asks, "Where's the elf?"

"Elismyra," she reminds him sharply. "She has a name."

"Not one I care to remember," he growls at her, and Farkas shifts uneasily from foot to foot. "Where is she?"

It is his brother who answers. "She left."

Vilkas is struck speechless for a fraction of a second. "What?"

"She's gone. She must have slipped out while everyone was sleeping." He nods at Aela, who is holding a letter with a broken seal. "She left a note."

"Give that to me," he demands, snatching it from her hands before she can protest. Of all the cowardly, underhanded, conniving deeds the Altmer had done, the last thing he would have expected of her was to ignore the opportunity to boss everyone around, haughty creature that she was.

Vilkas glowers at the paper, reading her note. She has beautiful handwriting, he notices.

_Whoever stumbles upon this first, first let me apologize. I know how craven I am for not facing the lot of you; you deserve better. But I have made friends out of some of you and could not bear to see your disappointment. I am sorry._

_I have left Jorrvaskr, and I am likely to not return. Aela was witness to Kodlak passing on the mantle of Harbinger to me, and I cannot accept the title. It is more than not wanting leadership: the Companions were never meant to be led by an elf, especially one so contradictory to your ways as I am. I am not fit to guide you all when I do not think or act as you do; I am many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them._

_Do you truly believe the rest of the Companions would accept me as their Harbinger? Did not Ysgramor himself wipe the elves off his corner of Tamriel? You lot are built on his legacy, and I do not wish to soil it. I am not a warrior; I am the very picture of what Ysgramor was trying to extinguish. The Companions would lose a great amount of respect if it was found out that a High Elf was their counselor. That is not what people picture when they come to us; they come for glory and valor and strength, and I offer none of those things; at least, not in the ways they desire. So I have gone to walk a different path._

_I am sure you will hear of me soon, if what happened at the Western Watchtower was any indication. Likewise, I will keep a sharp ear out for news of you. Different we may be, but you gave me refuge for a time. I am grateful for it; more than you may know._

_As for the title, I pass it off to Vilkas, who should have been appointed in the first place. Lead well, seek glory, and may you die with a sword in your hand...or whatever it is the Nords say. You were an excellent trainer, brutal as your methods were, and I shall not forget our lessons. I must also thank you for consenting to be my forebearer to the Beast Blood. A greater gift I have never received. I hope you get to see Morrowind someday; I hear it is a harsh place, but full of fascinating creatures. Perhaps I shall join you, if you'll have me along. I have always wanted to see a Silt Strider._

_Aela and Farkas: you have been better friends to me than I deserve. I hope we meet again one day; I will miss you most of all. Your companionship and tutelage are invaluable, and I wish you the very best. I will see you in the Hunting Grounds, Aela, if we do not meet again on this plane. Farkas, you are wise beyond your years. I enjoyed the simplicity and frank honesty of our friendship; I doubt I will be able to find such a thing in another. Take care of yourselves._

_For those who still seek the cure, the key to Kodlak's armoire is in his nightstand. There are heads in there for each of you, if you still want them. I froze them, to keep them from decaying and fouling up the place, so you are free to take them at your leisure._

_Ah, but this letter has grown too long; I meant only a brief explanation and to name a new Harbinger. I will think of you often and fondly, my pack mates, and the time we spent together._

_Elismyra_

Vilkas blinks and rereads the letter, his fists clenching tighter and tighter. His brother watches him warily, and Aela says, "We need to track her down and bring her back; she can't just pass the title and her duties off like that." The Huntress snorts. "She'd have to be dead first."

"That can be arranged," Vilkas snarls, and finally tosses the paper into the roaring fire. He is going to wring her scrawny neck for this, tossing them all aside like rubbish, as if they had not done anything for her at all, as if their precious time wasted on her training meant nothing. She was part of the Circle, a part of their pack: she had said it herself. He is going to drag her back to Jorrvaskr by her hair, kicking and screaming, if that is what it comes to.

"Vilkas," Aela says, detecting his fury. "She's named you Harbinger Regent, since you cannot take her place fully. You have to stay here, keep everyone in line. I'll sniff her out; Hircine knows all you'll end up doing is driving her further away with that damnable temper of yours." She glares at him when he opens his mouth to argue. "I'll be back within the month."

"No," he spits at her, trembling he is so furious; he doesn't even know who with anymore. "I am Harbinger Regent, and you lot follow my orders." The beast rumbles its assent in his chest. "You two will remain here and I'll take care of this-this-" he searches for the right word, "pup. You'll be too soft on her."

"Brother," Farkas sounds well and truly worried now, "I don't think you're in your right mind-"

Vilkas's threatening growl silences him.

Aela's hackles are rising, raising to meet his challenge but he'll be damned if he lets her question his orders. Does she not understand the gravity of what the elf has done? Does she not care? Kodlak's final wish was for the she-elf to lead the Companions; she has disrespected the old man, ignored his will for the group he had given his life for. Hircine take him if he lets it go unpunished.

"Be quiet," he hisses at the Huntress, and yellow bleeds into her grey eyes. "I _am_ going to find her and I _am_ going to bring her back in one piece. You have my word." He storms to the door, throwing it out of his way with a final glance over his shoulder. "Don't follow me. Stay here until we return." And the door falls shut.

* * *

><p><em>Seven thousand steps<em>, she laments to herself. _Seven_ thousand _steps_. _Azura and Hircine, my feet hurt._

It has been three weeks since she's left Jorrvaskr and Whiterun behind. Elismyra, as she travelled, found she much enjoyed the harsh, untamed beauty of Skyrim. She had never seen much of it before now, having only ventured out to the plains of Whiterun (or ran from a great black dragon, but she tries not to think of that), and the mountains are breathtakingly beautiful, if obscenely cold. The land teems with wildlife and plants, and more than once she'd come across a mercenary to walk with for a time. They had such interesting stories to tell.

She'd even run into a strange Khajiit on the road. M'aiq, she thought his name was.

High Hrothgar had been a mystifying experience. The Greybeards were very strange men, living in solitude atop the Throat of the World. She found them wise and humble, but prone to inaction. Their teaching, however, was astounding. Elismyra had scoffed at the very thought of being what the Nords called Dragonborn. She was no worshipper of Talos, did not even believe in his godhood, much less that she was one of his ilk. This nonsense was for the Nords and their folktales, not an educated elven lady who favored magic over the sword.

But she can read the language of the dragons, speak their words and wield their power.

The Altmer sighs as she crosses the bridge to Ivarstead, her feet dragging behind her. It had taken three days to reach the top of the mountain and two to climb back down. Her bones ache, her shoulders droop, and her magic hovers just out of reach. She has never been so exhausted in all her life.

In the darkness, a figure detaches itself from the shadows. The beast inside twitches, and she snaps to attention. They are downwind of her, so she cannot taste their scent.

The person stalks forward, and she sees from the walk it is a man. A tall man, as tall as her, with broad shoulders and a deep chest. As he comes closer, she hears the clank of his armor and sees the vague outline of the hilt of a greatsword over one of his shoulders.

Damn it all. She does not have the time nor energy for this; in her current state, she knows he is more than a match for her. She is simply too tired and too frazzled to fight.

Even still, she manages to summon a wisp. He stops just outside the reach of its luminescent glow, and she lets out a frustrated growl. The beast loans her its strength and she calls lightning into her palm. "Show yourself," she barks, bracing should she need to phase.

He steps forward. She sees it is Vilkas.

She cannot even deny the relief she feels after the surprise fades away. After all this time, a familiar face, one she knows well. He is just as she remembers; dark, messy hair, the shadow of stubble on his jaw and chin, full lips pulled down in a scowl. His warpaint is as fierce as ever, and he smells just the same: old books, ink, and fresh pine. Gods, she has missed him.

But when she meets his eyes, they are not the sharp, pale blue she remembers. They are a cold yellow, the pupils slits. Her smile falls from her face and she steps back.

He is angry.

Very angry.

Before she can open her mouth, to ask what he is doing here, how he found her, he advances, taking a step toward her. "Well," he says, and his voice is flat and sardonic, "If it isn't Elismyra the Coward, wandering around in the dead of night. Who did you abandon this time, elf?" His face twists into a disgusted sneer. "Let me guess: a lover who no longer strikes your fancy? I pity the poor sod."

She refuses to rise to the bait, knowing he is goading her for no other reason than to see her flustered, although she wants to shriek she has never taken a lover before, especially not one she found in such an uncivilized place, so he'd better not insult her honor again if he knew what was good for him.

Instead, she schools her expression into blank neutrality, letting the sparks in her hand fizzle out as she straightens her shoulders. "What are you doing here, Vilkas?"

"I could ask you the same thing, _Harbinger_," he spits the title like it's poison on his tongue.

Elismyra scoffs. There is no point in stooping to Vilkas's level; he is only here to guilt her and shame her, she knows. He is angry, and while she does not blame him for it, she can most definitely do so for his railing her up one side and down the other for neglected duties when he is doing the very same thing. "I'm not the Harbinger anymore," she reminds him coolly, "Which begs the question: why are _you_ here, chasing geese, when the Companions need you? Don't you lecture me, human. I tied up all my loose ends."

He appears stunned for a moment, and she smirks at him. The Nord shakes his head and glowers at her, and she returns it. "You cannot just pack up and leave to follow the breeze, elf. Kodlak gave you a duty, and you will see it through, even if you think yourself above it." His eyes are gold once more, and she can see his hands are trembling.

She knows she should not provoke him. Not when he is so close to shifting. But his assumptions hurt despite her best efforts and if he wants to play it that way, fine.

Elismyra hurls her pack to the ground, and she hears the breaking of glass as her potion bottles shatter. She cannot bring herself to care; she is so furious, so enraged, at this man who dares question her morality, her code of conduct. She has done everything in her power to undo the damage her kind has wrought, fighting to show the Nords that not all elves were self-righteous bigots, and this is what her efforts have brought her. Scorn, contempt, from a man she admires.

"You think I place myself above you?" she shrieks at him, her voice echoing down the side of the mountain. "You think I'm not grateful or honored by what Kodlak saw in me? I know what it means to be Harbinger, Vilkas! I know leaving was not the least bit honorable, but I didn't have a choice!" Tremors are overtaking her, and she shakes herself to dislodge them. "I left for _you!_ I left because someone like me is not fit to be Harbinger, you ignorant man! No one in their right mind would follow me; I'm not a warrior, I'm not a human, and I am most definitely not the sort to lead them!"

Vilkas snarls at her, and if she was not already so angry she would have been terrified. As it is, the sound only rips one from her own throat. "It's not for you to decide!" he bellows. "You do not get to just shove it off on someone else simply because you don't like it! Have we taught you _nothing?_" His teeth are pointed now. "Kodlak trusted you to honor his memory, to lead in his stead because he thought you worthy! Instead you brush it off as if he was nothing and hare off on your own pointless venture!"

"_Pointless?!_" she shrills. She can hardly believe his audacity. "Pointless?! The Greybeards _summoned me_, you idiot! And I ignored them for _you!_ For _Aela!_ For _Farkas!_ Because Kodlak wanted me to stay!" Tears are burning in her eyes as she thinks of the old man, his deep, gravelly voice and his wise smile. Oh, how she wishes she had been there to protect him, to save him. "He was like a father to me; I would _never_ disrespect him like you accuse me of doing."

Vilkas barks a laugh that is half howl and entirely mirthless. "You expect me to believe it was you the Greybeards summoned? You, a High Elf, the fabled Dragonborn?" He sneers at her, contempt dripping from every pore. If she were any other woman she would have flinched away from the venom in his voice. She jutts her chin out at him instead and nods. "Right. And I'm Queen Barenziah."

She is fed up with him, utterly and totally incapable of dealing with his snide, self-important hypocrisy any more. Elismyra gestures obscenely at him and spits, "Go do the anatomically impossible, Vilkas." She leaves her ruined bag where it landed and sails past him, head held high. To think, she admired this man, thought him handsome and intelligent and talented. He is nothing of the sort; he is just like every other human male she has ever come across. Arrogant, blind, a pig. She wants nothing more to do with him. Ever.

She hears his armor burst too late. She smells the change sweep over him and she is not quick enough.

White-hot pain explodes across her back as Vilkas, crazed with fury, lunges and rakes his claws from shoulder to hip. They slice through her priceless armor like hot bread, gouging into her golden skin and ripping flesh from bone. Elismyra _shrieks_, this time in agony, and falls to her hands and knees, blind with pain and desperate to flee. In the back of her mind her own beast howls, pushing under her skin but she will not change, she will not turn and attack her shield-brother. She _won't_. She is better than that.

This is Vilkas. Her Shield-Brother, her pack-mate, her mentor. She cannot bring herself hurt him.

Elismyra gasps, struggling to crawl forward but her blood is gushing from the wounds on her back, slicking up the stones of the bridge and coating her palms and knees. Spots dance before her eyes and she can't breathe, can't find her magic to heal herself, and with a wracking sob her strength fails her and she crashes onto the stones. Her back is flayed open and it _hurts_, Hircine, it _hurts_, but she forces herself to roll over onto her side so her blood won't stain her face. She absolutely refuses the indignity of dying face-down in her own fluids.

Through a haze, she feels her instincts prickle as Vilkas phases back. She cannot look at him; her eyelids are too heavy and she doesn't want his disgust to be the last memory she carries to the Hunting Grounds. So, instead, she closes her eyes and breathes a sigh, praying the Lord of the Hunt will come for her soon; she doesn't think she can endure the pain for long.

_Maybe_, she thinks, in a fog of delirium, _Azura will come instead? Moonshadow is the most beautiful of all the Daedric realms; I would very much like to see it_.

A voice calls to her, a hand shakes her shoulder and she cries out as it stretches her wounds and sends even more searing agony down her ruined back. She grits her teeth and snarls, wanting more than anything to curl up in a ball and die but she can't, it hurts too much and by all the Aedra and Daedra _why isn't she dead yet?_

The ground disappears from beneath her and she _howls_ before her will dies in her chest and blackness takes her.

* * *

><p>He is disgusted with himself.<p>

Dawn erupts outside the Vilemyr Inn but Vilkas does not lift his head from his hands. His head throbs with the consequences of changing back and forth so quickly but he does not care. Vaguely, he can feel Wilhelm staring at him pityingly from behind the bar but he doesn't care about this, either.

He cannot forget the rage, potent and all consuming. How it drove him, dogged at him, forced him into the wolf's body. How despicable it had seemed for her to walk away from him as if she didn't care, as if she never had.

How easily his claws sunk into her slender shoulder and ripped downward.

Her screams, long and wailing.

Her blood on the stones, on his hands, everywhere. Her trying desperately to crawl, _crawl_, proud Elismyra, _crawling_ away from him and the monster he was. Her ruined body collapsing and stilling before he even realized through the fog of rage and bloodlust what he had done.

Vilkas blinks at the weathered table, exhausted and burning with shame. To think, he had accused her of being dishonorable, of abandoning her duties and the oath she took as a Companion. He shudders and hunches over further, gritting his teeth. He ought to be expelled, stripped of his rank and tossed out into the streets on his arse. He had come at her, maimed her, perhaps even killed her, because she would not bend to his will. Because she would not sink to his level. Because she had left him behind.

She hadn't even fought back.

The door to her room creaks open and he spins in his seat, eyes finding a pale, drained Bosmer man leaning in the doorway. Vilkas rises to his feet slowly, forcing himself to take deep, calming breaths. He refuses to lose his head again, will not abandon his senses ever again if he has any say in it. The Wood Elf blinks strange yellow eyes at him and nods.

"She's stable," Gwilin tells him, and he sags in relief so huge it nearly crushes him. "I did all I can for now, but I'm not a trained healer. I've sent for Ingun Black-Briar in Riften, and a priest of Mara, but…" he looks over his shoulder at something Vilkas can't see. "I don't know if she'll last that long. She lost a lot of blood and her wounds are deep; like I said, I only know a few basic healing spells."

The Companion shoves the elf aside, but not before dropping a hefty bag of coins in his hand. Gwilin stares at it in wonder before pinning him with a questioning glance. Vilkas nods and says, "Thank you for your help. Go home; I'll call you if anything changes." The elf nods and shuffles out of the inn.

Vilkas takes a deep breath a forces himself to turn and look at the damage he has done.

Elismyra is still and silent, her breathing shallow but steady. She is bare from the neck down to her hips, where a threadbare blanket preserves her modesty. Gwilin has lain her on her stomach with her arms curled beneath the pillow. White bandages cover her entire torso, wrapping from her right shoulder all the way down to her left hip. Her golden skin is pale and sickly yellow with blood-loss, and if not for the shallow rise and fall of her shoulders he would think she is dead.

Vilkas clenches his jaw and his fist, shoving his other hand through his hair before shutting the door behind him. There is a chair by a table with a low candle in the corner, and he settles into it, bracing an elbow on the wood and making himself look at her, look at what his temper and his pride has done to her. Her face is still and relaxed in sleep, and he is startled when he realizes she is beautiful.

The Nord studies her, ashamed of himself for his fascination after what he has done, but he can't stop. There is an earring in her left ear, crusted with blood now but he can still see tiny blue stones inlaid in the silver. Her hair is a deep, deep red, a shade he has never seen before but finds lovely all the same. It is short, longer near her face and shorter toward her neck, and he notices how narrow it makes her jaw seem. Her face is angular and sharp, her eyes slanted, her lips thin but not unbecoming. There is a tiny scar across the bridge of her nose.

With every short breath, tendrils of hair flutter near her mouth. He watches, reassuring himself she is alive. Her eyes flicker behind her lids and he wonders what she dreams about.

Howling. Blood. Darkness. That much he knows, and he prays Hircine will leave her well enough alone. She has paid enough already.

Vilkas sits back in his chair, rubbing his face. He knows he should sleep, but he is terrified that the moment he leaves she will stop breathing and wither away. It would be suitable punishment for him, the guilt and grief of knowing he had killed her, but then it would be at her expense _again_ and that is the last thing he wants.

_He was like a father to me; I would never disrespect him like you accuse me of doing._

_Do you truly believe the rest of the Companions would accept me as their Harbinger?_

_I hope you get to see Morrowind someday..._

_I left for _you!_ I left because someone like me is not fit to be Harbinger!_

_...Perhaps I shall join you, if you'll have me along._

He slams his fist on the table and growls. _Fool_, he snarls at himself. _You blighted, ignorant fool. She was only trying to do what she thought was right._

It didn't matter if what she thought was entirely wrong, if her skewed sense of logic forced her to leave them in the dust out of some misguided sense of heroism. She did not understand their ways, did not know how her actions would come across. She is an elf and a newcomer; there was no way she could have anticipated her abandonment as such an insult. Vilkas doesn't know what she had been thinking, how she could have possibly thought they would let her walk away without a fight, but he does know she has paid for it more dearly than she ever could have deserved.

_You'll be too soft on her._

_If it isn't Elismyra the Coward…_

_I _am_ going to bring her back in one piece. You have my word._

_...Who did you abandon this time, elf? Let me guess: a lover who no longer strikes your fancy?_

_Instead you brush it off as he was nothing and hare off on your own pointless venture!_

He recalls his horrible words and curses at himself, rubbing his forehead again, and wonders if they will be the last he ever speaks to her. He glances at her prone form on the bed, still breathing, and sighs. He is no use sitting here and pitying himself; there are things to be done and coin to spend.

Vilkas stands and stretches before making his way out of her room and into the main hall, where Wilhelm stands at his counter and Lynly plucks her lute. He approaches the innkeeper, shoulders hunched and feet dragging.

Wilhelm takes pity on him. "I've given you the room next to hers," he says, and points in the direction of his bed. Vilkas follows his finger tiredly and nods, too exhausted for words. "I'll wake you if anything changes."

"Thanks," the Companion grumbles, and hands him the ten gold coins for the room, as well as a few extra. At Wilhelm's confused stare, he says, "For a courier. I need to deliver a message to Whiterun."

"Ah." The innkeeper nods and takes the sealed letter Vilkas hands him. "I'll find one for you at once. And, eh, lad," he calls as Vilkas turns away. He looks over his shoulder and quirks an eyebrow. "If you don't mind my askin'...what happened?"

For a split second, Vilkas wants to laugh. Throw back his head and guffaw at the ceiling because surely this is far worse than any of Hircine's nefarious whims. Instead, he says, gruffly, "Bear. Got her coming down from High Hrothgar."

"Must have been a big bear." His eyes are wary.

"Aye. I killed it."

Wilhelm eyes him for a moment, and Vilkas worries the old man isn't going to let it go. But finally, he nods, and the Nord thanks whatever Divines are listening as he stumbles off to his room.

A week passes in much the same manner. Vilkas sits vigil in her room each day until he is so tired the words of his book swim before his eyes. Gwilin comes and checks on her, and once the Nord asks why she doesn't wake. The Bosmer looks him dead in the eye and says he is keeping her under so she does not have to face the agony of her wounds that consciousness will bring.

Vilkas asks no more questions after that.

On the second day, Gwilin brings a woman with him, one Vilkas has seen tending the mill when he stares out the window. The Bosmer says he is going to teach her to change the bandages, for Altmer are modest creatures and he doubts Elismyra will want a man to see her stripped bare any more than the elf himself already has. The woman, who calls herself Temba, meets his eyes and he sees how rough and uncaring she is.

"I will change them," he tells the pair, because he does not like the look of this woman and because he needs to see how terribly he has scarred her.

The Bosmer appears nervous and says that he doesn't think this is a good idea, but Vilkas will not be swayed. Altmer culture be damned, they are in Skyrim now and if she despises him all the more for it, he will suffer the consequences. She will hate him regardless, but he cannot tell these people that.

Gwilin finally relents, sending Temba away. He looks at Vilkas with a new light in his eyes, one the Companion pretends is not there. The elf carefully turns Elismyra onto her side and begins to unwind the strips of cloth, and when her back is exposed he cannot help but breathe in sharply.

There are four long, bloody furrows stretching across the entire expanse of her that bear a morbid resemblance to the warpaint Aela favors. The edges are ragged and pale with blood loss, and he thinks he might be sick. The white of her backbone glints in the light streaming in through her window, visible where she has been flayed open, and he prays to all the gods he knows of that he has not crippled her.

"I'm trying to keep them from becoming infected," Gwilin says; Vilkas has almost forgotten he is there, "But they're healing slowly, even with my spells. It's very strange." The Companion knows why - the blood of the wolf inside her prevents her body from repairing itself at a natural speed - but Gwilin has no need to know such a thing. The elf hands the bundle of soiled cloth to the Nord and tells him to take them to the river to wash; they are all he could find in the tiny village, and he needs to work his magic, anyhow.

So Vilkas does so, every day, scrubbing the blood away in the rapids each morning, boiling them in the afternoon, and wrapping them back around her each night - the Bosmer says the fresh air will help heal the wounds, as well. Her skin burns with fever beneath his fingers and he wonders when the healers from Riften will arrive.

The worst part is her nightmares.

No werewolf sleeps easy; he has known this for many years. But Elismyra, plagued with fever and haunted by Hircine, screams in her sleep each night. The walls of the inn are thin indeed, and while he knows they are just dreams, that there is nothing he can do for her, it takes all of his will to keep from cringing in his bed when her throaty voice wakes him in the dead of night.

Once, she calls his name and begs him to stop. He does cringe and bites his fist for good measure.

Sometimes, she speaks in a language he has never heard. It is guttural and broken, but he listens anyhow, curious despite himself. He thinks for a moment it might be daedric, but he has heard those words in his own head before and quickly dismisses the idea.

On the fifth day, Aela arrives, smelling of snow and wind. She regards him with disdain and does not say a word. He takes it in silence; it is nothing he does not deserve.

The Huntress takes over the duty of bandage-changing and snarls at him when he tries to intervene. "You have done more than enough," she tells him, and his shoulders stiffen. "Sulk in the corner if you want, but you'll not touch her." And for once, he obeys her without argument.

It is on the eighth day that Ingun and the priest arrive, road-weary but determined. Vilkas has never been so glad to see someone in his life.

Ingun shoos them all out of the room, including Aela. "You're just going to crowd me," she tells them all, and looks for a fleeting moment a bit like her hag of a grandmother. The youngest Black-Briar is the least detestable of her family, if not remarkably pleasant. He has always found her a bit odd, but does not tell her so. She does good work, he knows.

The priest, a Dunmer swathed in obnoxiously orange robes, looks up at him curiously. "Gwilin tells me you've been looking after her," she says, her lips twitching, and Vilkas nods hesitantly. "You're not married, are you? I don't recall you coming to the temple."

"No," the Nord says slowly, having the sense he is going to regret this conversation.

The elven woman laughs, a rich sound, and her red eyes twinkle with mischief when she looks at him again. "Oh, she is going to have _words_ for you when she wakes, Serah," she says, and disappears into the room after Ingun. Vilkas stands, embarrassed, and shakes his head.

Aela is sitting at a table, glaring into her mug of mead. Bassianus Axius leers at her out of the corner of his eye, and Vilkas growls at him in disgust. The man is an arrogant piece of scum who haunts the inn, drinking and wasting his days away. Vilkas does not like him in the slightest.

He takes a seat across from the Huntress and folds his arms, tucking his chin to his chest and preparing to try and nap, when she speaks to him for the first time in three days. "What happened?"

Vilkas glowers at her. "You know what."

"I know what you wrote. I want you to tell me exactly what you did, ice-brain."

There is nothing Vilkas is more loathe to do. He would rather her impale him on a spike than recount how utterly out of control he was, how beastial and savage. The way ice settled in his stomach when he saw her blood on his hands, his claws, leaching her life away onto that deserted bridge. How she had screamed.

"I ruined my armor," he says instead, because he cannot force the words to come. They are too shameful.

Aela looks ready to murder him, and Vilkas forces himself to meet her gaze. He will not cower before her, not beg her forgiveness because he knows he will not receive it. He refuses to let her punish him, because she cannot possibly say or do anything to him he has not already said to himself.

"When we get back," he begins again, slowly, measuring each word, "I will go for the cure. This cannot...it will not happen again."

"Do you give your word?" Aela snaps at him, and he winces, "Since you seem to place so much value in your promises." Her glare is feral, but he admires that there is no yellow in it. "If it were me, I would have killed you. I don't have the slightest idea of why she didn't."

Vilkas doesn't either, but he keeps silent. "I'll have to see Eorlund about new armor for...both of us. I could only find my gauntlets, and they're in shreds."

The Huntress laughs, a cruel and bitter sound. "I think you should start looking for armor more suited to a mercenary, whelp; Skyforge steel is too good for you."

He turns away and crosses his arms, staring into the roaring hearth in the center of the room. "Yes," he answers quietly, so she has to strain to hear him. "Perhaps that is best." When he looks back at her, her face has lost its edge, because Aela does not _soften_.

They do not speak again for some time. Instead, they listen to the faint voices issuing from behind Elismyra's closed door, straining to pick up anything that indicates how she is doing. He trusts Ingun, trusts her knowledge of potions and plants, but he cannot help but remember the markings, the gleam of stark-white bone against red and angry flesh, and wonder if it is beyond her skill.

"Vilkas," Aela says, breaking their silence, and he jumps before glaring at her. She is watching him, something that is not quite concern in her grey eyes. "When did you last eat?" She wrinkles her nose, "Or bathe? You are absolutely _foul_, man."

He is startled when he realizes he doesn't know. His last meal was yesterday, and his stomach rumbles loudly in agreement. Aela smirks pointily at him and all but shoves him out of the door, saying he was not to come back until he was clean, and that there would be a hot meal waiting for him when he returned. He grumbles, but goes to the river anyway; he knows she is right, can feel the grime clinging to him like a second skin, and hopes the raging headache that has been dogging him for a week will wash away downstream with the rest of his troubles.

When he returns, his hair dripping in his eyes but feeling better than he has in days, there is indeed a plate of seasoned trout, buttered potatoes and roasted leeks on the table. The main hall is empty, and he guesses Aela has left to hunt for herself; she has been with Elismyra for nearly three straight days.

Vilkas eats, but as he stares at the closed door to the elf's room, the food turns to ashes in his mouth and it is all he can do to keep from spitting it out. He forces himself to stomach it, because he is no use to anyone weak and stumbling from hunger.

Aela returns to find him reading, and when he lifts his head to acknowledge her, she gives him a wan smile. He nods, and their truce is sealed.

It is well after night has fallen that the door finally creaks open and Ingun and her priest slouch out, exhausted and pale. The elf's scarlet eyes are half-lidded and the alchemist is yawning, but the duo comes to them anyway. Black-Briar's smile is triumphant as she says, "She's going to live. Gwilin did an excellent job with such scant resources; he saved her life."

Relief so violent he nearly groans washes over him, and he hears Aela clasp her hands together loudly. "How is she?" He almost doesn't wish to know.

"The wounds weren't poisoned, obviously, so we didn't need to worry about that. They've been healing slowly, which I'm going to guess is from a disease the animal might have been carrying, but they're mostly scabbed over. I've given her a tincture to numb the pain; I'm leaving a few bottles with you, and she must take them twice daily, along with a salve to keep any infections away." Ingun slouches into a chair as the elf goes up to the counter. "Her biggest problem now is going to be keeping them clean. She obviously can't wash them herself, so you two are going to have to help her; otherwise, they'll get infected and you're going to have to drag me all the way back out here again."

"And the fever?"

The woman blinks at him; he sees the bags under her eyes and the lines on her forehead, and wonders how long it has been since she has slept properly. "It lingers. Dinya and I will stay until it breaks, and then we will leave for Riften; I don't think it will last more than a few days."

Aela nods sagely and turns toward the open door. They cannot see Elismyra from where they are sitting, but they can see the shadow of a flickering candle dancing across the pine walls. The Huntress asks, "When can we see her?" And turns back to the two of them. "She hasn't woken since the attack, I hear."

"Gwilin was keeping a spell over her to keep her asleep; his foresight was remarkable. I'd quite like to have him as my apprentice." The elf - Dinya - appears with two plates of food, and they both begin eating ravenously. "Dinya lifted it once we were done; there isn't any need for it anymore, since the wounds are closed. She should wake within the hour."

Vilkas sighs and clasps his hands over his knees, staring at the straining tendons as he forces himself to ask the question burning on his tongue. "Are there going to be any…" he clears his throat, "lasting effects?"

"You mean is she going to be crippled?" He almost flinches at the elf's blunt paraphrasing. "No, I don't think so. Elves and humans are very similar; since her backbone was not broken, she shouldn't have any problems moving about normally once she is fully healed." She takes a large bite of venison. "Her recovery is, however, going to be long and painful. She'll have to be careful of her muscles as she works to recover her strength, lest she pull something vital. I don't think she'll be summoning fire storms or swinging a sword any time soon, but in a few days I'd expect her to be sitting up and feeding herself. She'll be weak, though." Dinya leers at him, "She's going to need a lot of help, since her injuries are so extensive. Bathing, for one, she should not be doing alone."

Vilkas coughs into his fist, although he has no idea why he is so embarrassed at the presumption. She has nothing he has not seen before, and he has seen parts of her, as well. Modesty is a foreign concept among a werewolf pack, where clothes are constantly ruined. She has still managed it somehow, though, keeping her back to them all when she phases.

Ingun pushes her plate away from her and stands, stretching her arms over her head and arching her back. "Do either of you know any restoration magic?" When he and Aela shake their heads, Ingun clucks her tongue. "Hm. She'll have to use her own, then, since Dinya and I can't stay for more than a few days. Don't let her exhaust herself with them, but let her practice if she needs it; I hear magical buildup is rather unhealthy."

Just then, a faint whisper floats from Elismyra's room. It is a groan, one born from those waking from an unnaturally long sleep.

He and Aela are up out of their chairs in a flash, hustling to her side. The Altmer is still stretched out on her belly, but the room now smells sharp and clinical, the odor of potent herbs seeping into the walls. Her eyelids flutter for the briefest of seconds, and then a small sliver of vibrant green appears.

Her muddled gaze fixes on him, and he suddenly finds no breath in his lungs. He cannot tear his eyes away, even as the fog clears from her own and they snap wide open, suddenly wild with fear.

It hurts more than he expects.

Aela steps between them, her soothing voice and protective presence easing the sudden tension in Elismyra's shoulders. "Where am I?" she rasps, and her cultured voice is hoarse with disuse. "I thought…"

"Hircine does not have you yet, Harbinger," the Huntress says, crouching down by the elf's bedside and smoothing her red hair away from her face. Vilkas has never seen her so gentle, and he watches, his voice caught in his throat. "You're in the Vilemyr Inn in Ivarstead. You've been asleep for eight days; you gave us quite the scare."

"Eight days," she marvels, and Vilkas closes his eyes and just listens to her speak. "I can certainly feel it; everything hurts."

He hears Aela shift uncomfortably and smells her unease. "Ah," she says, "I…do you remember…?"

"What happened?" If she were not so weak, Vilkas knows her voice would be cold and sharp. As it is, she still struggles to form words correctly. "Yes, I do. Quite well."

He suddenly feels her eyes on him, heavy and probing, but he cannot bring himself to look at her. Shame scorches through him for his cowardice, but it is quickly replaced by disgust for himself. What right does he have, to stand here with her, when it is by his hand that she lies, stricken, in her bed? She should send him away, banish him to the far corners of Skyrim for what he has done. It is what he deserves.

When Elismyra speaks next, her voice is so quiet he can barely hear her. "Aela," she says, "I want to speak to him. Alone."

"I-" the Huntress appears torn, glancing back and forth between the two: Vilkas, with his head bowed and eyes downcast, shoulders hunched in on himself. She has never seen him brought so low. And Elismyra, their Harbinger, sprawled on her belly with fever and wounds that have come from the very man himself.

"Please."

Aela finally nods and turns to go, but not before pinning the Nord with a frosty glare, full of dark warnings. When the door closes behind her back, he sinks into his chair at the table in the corner; the room is still small enough he can reach out and touch her, if he wants.

She is the first to speak.

"You're still here." It is amazing how a woman so sapped of strength can sound so abrasive. He has known she will be angry, has prepared himself for it, for her inevitable rejection. Even so, he hates to hear it.

"Yes."

"I'd've thought you'd have left me to die."

He cannot stop himself; he flinches at the burning accusation and grits his teeth. She has every right to her anger, and he knows that if she had been any other Altmer, he very well might have. The thought sears through his mind and down into his belly and he is _so_ ashamed. "I couldn't."

"Why? You certainly didn't have qualms about laying me out like this."

Vilkas snaps up to meet her flaming green eyes, angry despite himself. He knows she is right, knows he has done everything to earn her condescension and ire, but it chafes nonetheless and he will _not_ lie down and roll over like a wet-eared pup. "Because of the guilt; it wouldn't have been right to leave you there."

He wants to pull the words back as soon as they are out of his fool mouth.

If Elismyra could have sneered, she would have. As it is, she only shifts to prop herself up on her elbows and winces; he moves to help her, hands fluttering, unsure, but she spits, "Pah. So you did it for you, and not for me. Why am I not surprised." He is taken aback by the bitterness in her voice, and she somehow manages to look down her nose at him when she snarls, "So I'm going to guess you stayed here for so long because you were guilty, too? No other reason, like, I don't know, because you were actually worried?"

"No, I-"

"That's what you said," she snaps at him, and he clenches his jaw. He will not lose his temper again, he _won't_. Not with her, and especially not when she is right and bears the scars to prove it. "If that's your only reason, you should have gone back to Whiterun a long time ago. You should be there now."

Abruptly, she hangs her head, arms quivering and a curtain of red hair obscuring her face from him. He hears her sigh, and she mumbles a curse to herself. "You're an _ass_, Vilkas."

"I know."

"You haven't even apologized." She sounds so tired.

"Are apologies enough?"

She sighs again and sinks back down onto her pillow, her arms folded beneath her cheek as she regards him shrewdly. He stares back at her, so incredibly relieved to see her awake and alert, even if her eyes are too bright with fever and her movements stiff with pain. "I suppose not."

"I…" He isn't sure what to say. What is there, what plea, what promise can he make to her to try and redeem himself after falling so low? He is nothing but a feral, rabid and wild and savage. "I know my actions are...unforgivable. But I swear," he makes sure she is listening by holding her heated gaze, "If I could go back, to that night on the bridge, I would. I would do it in a heartbeat and do anything to change it." He clenches his fists on his knees. "I've been doing nothing but sitting here while you slept, hating what I've done. I didn't stay just because of the guilt, but there is plenty of that." He looks away, out of her window, at the velvet navy sky, "I didn't want you to die. If you must know anything, know that."

There is silence for so long he thinks she has fallen asleep. When he forces himself to look back over to her, she is watching him, her eyes shuttered so he cannot see what she is thinking. He meets her gaze steadily, and he is startled when he feels a stirring in his soul.

Suddenly restless, he shifts in his seat.

Finally, Elismyra speaks. Her voice is breathy and soft and so exhausted he cannot help but pity her. "I'm so _furious_ with you, Vilkas."

"I know."

"You should be expelled, attacking me like that."

"I know."

"I should hate you."

He is so shocked he reels away from her, completely caught off guard. "You mean you don't?"

Elismyra sighs and looks away from him, fixing her impossibly green eyes on the pale gray-brown of her headboard. "I want to. It's no more than you deserve. But I don't think I could ever hate you, Vilkas." Her voice is worn and exhausted, and she gives a self-deprecating snort. "It's so pathetic, but I can't. Not even for this." She flicks a glance at him and blinks, her brows furrowing tightly and her mouth thinning. "What a pair we make."

Vilkas shakes his head and smiles for the first time in eight days. He knows he is not forgiven, knows perhaps he never will be, but she is alive and not-quite-well, but on the mend, and surprisingly, that is enough for him. He could live with her hate, knowing she is alive and that he has received his punishment. It is far more than he imagined that she does not, and that he still has the chance to prove himself to her.

He vows to himself, as he leaves her room to rest, that he will do just that.


	2. Burning Death

**_VERY_ _IMPORTANT:_Okay, so, funny story. _Beyond the Sea_ was supposed to be a one-shot! I accidentally forgot to mark it as complete when I published it, and then I started getting all these wonderful emails about reviews asking for more, and I said to myself, "How can I say no to that?"**

**So. I am working on a second chapter, but since I had no plans at all to continue, it is slow going. What I have here for you all is a sort of consolation prize to tide you over; a separate one-shot I had stored somewhere for ages but never shared. It occurs in the same universe as _Beyond the Sea_, but far beyond the scope of that story; a year or two in the future, I would say. **

**Once the next chapter is finished, I'll replace this with it, possibly publishing it as a separate story. Or maybe an epilogue. We'll see what happens. **

**So. Thank you so, so much for all the favorites and alerts! I truly did not expect that, and this is living proof that reviews really do cause inspiration. **

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><p><strong><em>Burning Death<em>**

Elismyra is whistling, very nearly skipping as she makes her way up the winding path of Dayspring Canyon to Fort Dawnguard. Her mood is light and airy, brought on by the troop of Thalmor soldiers who had attacked her right outside in the forests. Elenwen was surely depleting her stock of mage-fodder with the idiots she kept throwing at her; this was the third time this week, and the third execution order she had found. Elismyra finds it funny; she thinks she might frame them, in a fit of gleeful defiance.

The she-elf draws near the massive iron-wrought doors of the castle and sees Ingjard standing outside with Celann. It is not an unusual sight, for they are the gate-keepers and the eagle-eyes of the bunch, but their pinched brows and tight frowns certainly are.

She walks nearer and opens her mouth to voice the question burning on her tongue, but the Breton beats her to it. "Florentius is looking for you," he says quickly, "And I wouldn't wait to see him; it's very important."

"Almost nothing that comes out of his mouth is important," Elismyra answers, but not unkindly; the eccentric priest is her dearest friend among the otherwise-stoic group of vampire hunters, Serana notwithstanding. "What does he want?"

Ingjard appears severely disturbed, and Elismyra becomes well and truly worried when she sees pity in the Nord's blue eyes. "Just go talk to him."

She is confused, but Elismyra nods all the same and hurries inside, her good mood forgotten. The main foyer is freezing and massive and entirely deserted-even Dexion is nowhere in sight. Ice settles in her gut when she flares her nostrils and smells the anger, the disbelief, the grief, polluting the air.

Everyone is beside themselves. Her hackles rise along with her alarm.

Florentius is where he always is, but he is not experimenting at the alchemy station or even pretending to try and enchant anything. Instead, he is slumped over against a bookshelf, head in his hands. Gunmar and Sorine are by his side, their hands on his shoulders. Isran stares, his brow furrowed as he frowns heavily.

It is not until someone collides with her does she find the strength to look away. She does not even know what has happened yet and already she feels the blood draining from her face.

The High Elf staggers and sees the black braids of Serana. The last of the Volkihar vampires has thrown her arms around her neck, her hands cold and hard. "Oh, Elismyra," she moans. "I'm so sorry."

"What?" Her voice is flat, lifeless, and entirely not her own. Serana draws back, her glowing eyes flaming with a guilt and an anger turned inward. She bites her bottom lip, fangs protruding.

"Florentius…"

"What happened?" Elismyra is all but begging now, uncaring at how desperate she sounds. "What's going on? Why is everyone-"

"It's your husband."

Florentius has finally spoken, and his voice is hollow and his eyes are dark. Sorine cannot help but flinch, and when the elf meets her eyes the woman does not hold her gaze.

There is a stone lodged in her belly, heavy and impossible to ignore. Her breath is frozen in her lungs and suddenly the golden band on her left index finger is burning against her skin. It does not take an Archmage to deduce what has happened.

What little blood there is left in her cheeks vanishes, and Elismyra staggers, throwing a steadying hand out for Serana. "No," she groans. "No, it can't be."

Vilkas. He is too strong, too smart. Impossible.

Elismyra lurches forward and falls in front of the priest of Arkay. She grasps his shoulders and shakes him, demanding, "He's not dead. He can't be dead, tell me he's not _dead_, Florentius. He's too strong for that, he's a Companion for Hircine's sake. _Florentius_!" She shrieks, and does not notice how her watery voice booms through the castle. "Answer me, damn it!'

The Imperial meets her crazed gaze, his dark eyes distant. She thinks he is listening, listening to whatever his foul god is telling him, and if not for his remarkable claims come true in the past she would not believe a word of what he has said.

"He's alive," he murmurs, and Elismyra is so relieved she nearly weeps, right there, on the floor, in front of them all. "He's still alive. Barely."

"Where?" she barks, her voice having gone hard. She will kill them all, rip them limb from limb for this. How _dare_ they. "Tell me where he is."

"Gallows Rock."

Gallows Rock. Where they lost Skjor, where she had seen the horrific depravity and perversion of life that was the Silver Hand. Where Aela had wailed her unending grief over the Skinner's still-steaming corpse, where she had begun her secret war for revenge. Where she had seen werewolves forced halfway between human and beast, pelts half-hanging from their bodies as they writhed in unimaginable agony. She would laugh at the irony if it weren't so cruel.

Another thought slams into her. He has been cured. He is not safe from-

"Are they vampires?" She knows the question is redundant-she is standing in _Fort Dawnguard_, for crying out loud-but she has to know. This could be the one time the Eight have taken pity on her since coming to Skyrim and are not letting her husband-

"Yes."

She rips away from him, vaguely noticing she is so forceful he slams into the shelf, and shoves through the crowd that has gathered, the wolf howling in her head and demanding to be set free. She tells it not yet, not here, wait for the ones who deserve its ferocity.

They call to her but she does not listen. Her vision is tunneling, her senses so alert it is nearly painful. She smells everything, hears everything, and the rasp of her armor against her skin is almost abrasive. Someone is yelling for her to slow down, but she will not, not when Vilkas is in _that place_ with some of the most savage creatures she has ever known.

Shadowmere is waiting for her, his red eyes glowing as they find her. He flicks his tail and does not wait for her to tell him to go-as soon as she is in his saddle he lunges, flying through the forests of the Rift. "Gallows Rock," she roars into his black ear, and he gives a snort in acknowledgement. She has never met a horse as intelligent and wrathful as her own; he will carry her there, wind tearing past them, until foam flecks his hide and his heart pounds in his chest.

She pretends the tears blurring her vision are from the wind.

* * *

><p>The crumbling fort is nearly invisible in the snow, and she might have ridden right past it if not for the scent of undead. It is thick and cloying, so much like decay, creeping up through the snow and seeping into the wood of the surrounding pines. She leaps from Shadowmere and he stands, quivering, breathing so hard he is almost wheezing. She slides the saddle from his back and stashes it behind a tree. "Stay here," she breathes to him, stroking his strong face. "I will return." He whickers and nuzzles her cheek. She almost smiles.<p>

Elismyra sheds her armor, feeling the enchantments of Ahzidal's skill draining away from her. She misses them momentarily but dismisses the emptiness in the next: the beast is ready, enraged and burning for vengeance.

She is happy to oblige.

When she is bare, shivering in the whirling wind and snow, she sets it free. Shadowmere watches as black, coarse fur sprouts from her golden skin and fangs jut from her gums. The Altmer hunches, biting back the cry of pain as her bones and organs swell. But it is over quickly; she listens to the final snap of her bones locking into place and spins, loping toward the fort.

The Silver Hand have long since abandoned the place; they have learned it is cursed, haunted by the wolves they so hate but cannot possibly defeat. Two vampires wait by the door, and she relishes their shock before she tears into them.

The female is the first to fall; Elismyra takes her gray arm in her hand and rips it from her body, roaring in her face as she does it. Spectrals erupt on either side of her, howling in response and they pounce on her partner. She listens to his screams in cold approval.

The woman is still alive, gasping and writhing, and the she-wolf takes her thin neck in her jaws and tears her ugly head from her equally hideous body. It comes free with the sound of tearing parchment and she spits it out, hating the taste of poison ashes on her tongue.

She does not waste time to spare the corpses a glance; they do not deserve it. Undeath is unnatural, evil, perverted. Serana is the only exception, for her voice is warm in her cold body and her heart is pure, but these foul beings are not Serana. They are everything she isn't and they will _pay_.

Elismyra nearly tears the door off its hinges as she bursts inside. The entrance is empty but she expected that; she has been through this old fort many times and she knows where they are cowering. And if they aren't, she will make them. She will haunt them, terrorize them until they beg for death. And then she will rip their dead hearts from their bodies and crush them in her palm as they watch, the glow leaving their eyes for the last time.

Her spirits follow her as she tears through the halls, ducking and weaving through the narrow passages. She does not even pause as she throws herself around the corner where three are sitting, their bloodied feast still twitching at their feet. It would repulse her, if she were not so crazed with bloodlust. She engulfs the nearest one's head in her palm and pierces his neck with her claws as she slams him into a pillar with all the force she can muster. He dies wailing.

The other two stand and hiss, baring their white fangs and she roars in response, spittle flying from her jaws but she does not care. These wretches have _taken_ what is hers, defiled him, bit and fed off of him and she will _burn them alive_.

The thought grants her pause, and she stops in the midst of her kill: the vampire beneath her sinks her fangs into her forearm and Elismyra howls; another lands on her back and forces a dagger into her shoulder before her spectrals can rip him off. She kills the woman in her paws by sinking her talons into her chest and ripping her still heart from her body. That one dies too quickly.

The she-wolf glances about the room before making her decision; she knows she has been impulsive, driven by rage. They are dying too easily, too painlessly. The wolf may be terrifying and powerful and savage but it is not what they truly fear.

She lets the beast go, watching her hands as her skin appears and her paws shrink to long golden fingers. The wound in her shoulder flares in agony as she shifts, blood sheeting down her back, and she heals it with gritted teeth.

She stands bare in the room with the dying man, whom she has nearly forgotten about. For one horrifying moment she thinks it is Vilkas, but his face is clean-shaven and his eyes are brown. She kneels by him without a word, knowing she has to kill him. She is a powerful mage but she cannot cure this.

"Please," he begs, gripping her hand with what little strength he has left. "End me, please."

Elismyra bows her head before meeting his fevered eyes. She has no weapons, no armor-_Foolish girl_-but she does not need them. Instead, she places her hand on his bloodied body, over his heart. "I'm so sorry," she whispers to him, and holds his hand as she sends a shock into his fluttering chest. He sighs, and closes his eyes.

She stands and looks about for clothing. She is stark naked, and she wishes desperately for her armor, left out in the snow with Shadowmere. The only things available are the tattered leathers from a dead vampire but Hircine will drag her to the Hunting Grounds, kicking and screaming, before she so much as touches it. Instead, she sighs, and resigns herself, casting her best mage armor and hoping there are clothes lying about ahead.

Fire fills both her hands as she tears through the halls. She can still smell everything, her nostrils clogged with the scent of the walking dead and it is so disgusting it turns her stomach. Words are on the tips of her lips as she hurtles up a staircase. A fledgling is waiting for her at the top and laughs at the sight of her, and Elismyra flings a white-hot fireball into his face.

The way he _shrieks_ and _flails_ is so darkly satisfying that for a moment she scares herself. But then she thinks of Vilkas, bound and gagged and used as _fodder_, and then she thinks it too easy. She fires another, setting his clothes alight, and does not stay to see him burn to ashes. His screams are so loud they grate against her sensitive ears but at the same time she welcomes them. Let the others hear, let them know what is coming for them. She wants to see the terror in their eyes before she burns them in their sockets.

There is a dead thrall in a cell, unbloodied and as best as she can smell, unturned. He is wearing hides for armor and while she knows they will not fit properly, she takes them anyway. They are better than storming a fort in nothing but her skin.

Once she is situated, she continues on. The room at the end of the hallway is downright oozing with the vampire stench, so she readies her spell and flings the door out of her way.

Four pairs of red eyes glare back at her.

"Yol…"

They recognize what is happening but they are too slow.

"TOOR SHUL!" Fire erupts from her open mouth and for a moment she imagines what she must look like to them: a dragon, swathed in elven skin, breathing fire and smoke and death.

The one closest to her dies screaming, disintegrating into a pile of smoldering ashes. She regrets that he ends quickly.

The others are not so lucky. Two are set alight and they wail and snarl, their skin blackening and peeling. She weaves her spell as they stumble toward her, the third only slightly smoldering. This is her most powerful spell, one gifted to her by Tolfdir as she had ascended to the rank of Mistress of Destruction.

She releases it, slamming her palms to the stones underfoot as an enraged cry rips from her throat. Fire, so hot is appears white, explodes under her feet and swirls outward, devouring everything it touches. The vampires stare at her for the small fleeting moment of when they are standing in their own pyres, and then they are gone.

Whatever nightwalkers she comes across die in the same manner. She is so enraged, so desperately afraid she is too late that her spells are all the more powerful for it. The dagger at her hip remains unused as she channels her highborn powers, fueling and feeding her magic so she can watch them _burn_. She has never favored fire but now, she finds its unrepentant, uncontrollable hunger immensely satisfying.

When Elismyra reaches the final room, where Skjor perished and where the Skinner got a taste of his own medicine, she forces herself to pause and collect herself. She is panting and dripping with sweat, her lungs heaving, and her head is throbbing with the force of her anger. Her hands are blistered and raw from the heat of her spells, and she spares a moment to heal them quickly. Her ill-fitting armor is nearly falling off her shoulders and she straightens it before throwing the door out of her way.

Vilkas is kneeling on the center platform, and there is a vampire latched onto his neck.

The sound that escapes her mouth frightens even herself. It is half-howl, half-bellow, half-sob and it is so loud dirt crumbles from the stones overhead. The leech tears away and Vilkas grunts in pain, his blood dripping from her fangs and trickling down his neck, and Elismyra is so impossibly _furious_ she cannot even move.

"Ah," the creature drawls, and threads her hands through his hair. Vilkas stares at his wife with half-lidded eyes, shoulders heaving. His hands are tied so tightly behind him his back is arched, and there is a strip of cloth between his teeth. One of his eyes is black and swollen shut and his lip is split, and even from where she stands she can see the purpling bruises and angry slashes across his torso. Elismyra makes an inarticulate noise of hate and fury and grief as it says, "He said you would come."

Fire erupts in her palms and she is _trembling_, she is so unbelievably furious. "Take your filthy hands off him!" She bellows as she advances, but she cannot look at the creature as it laughs. Vilkas is watching her, his pale blue eyes cloudy and his skin brittle and white. And then she sees the bites in his neck, on his arms, and her vision bleeds to red.

"He tasted good," the thing says, "Saltier than most, but that's alright. I like them like that."

With an enraged cry, she gathers a ball of flame as large as a watermelon and hot as the sun between her two palms. The vampire springs away from her husband, hissing, and Elismyra flings it toward her pale form with every ounce of strength she has left. The nightmaster ignites and staggers back, shrieking, and the she-elf breathes fire again, advancing closer. She is wreathed in flame, her entire body cloaked in its heat. She sprays it on the ground, watching it stick to the stones and encircle the thrashing bloodsucker. It flows from her hands and her mouth in an unrelenting torrent, dousing the creature as it screams. The sound is music to the elf's ears.

Elismyra, when she has expended all her magic and the leech still stands, black and charred and moaning but still alive, rips the dagger from its sheath and buries it in the monster's eye. There is no spray of blood, but there is a squelch as the blade digs into brain matter, and in one final burst she claps her hand over its face and burns a hole through its skull.

She does not watch it die. Instead she whips to Vilkas, who is watching her with wide eyes. His breathing is raspy and rattling in his chest and she does not need her nose to know he is infected.

"Oh gods," she groans as she falls to his side. She reaches for him and carefully unties his gag, easing it from his mouth, and he gives a great gasp and dry cough. His bindings come loose in her hands, and then she pulls him into her embrace, tears burning in her eyes. He winces in pain but does not let her pull away, instead clutching her to him and burying his face in her hair. "Oh gods, Vilkas, I'm so sorry. I didn't know, I tried to get here as fast as I could-"

"I knew you'd come," he gasps in her ear, and slides a large hand into her hair. She breathes him in, taking as many gulps of his scent as she possibly can. She pretends not to notice as her tears of relief and guilt leak from the corners of her eyes. He is alive, she tells herself, he is alive and he's going to be okay. She got there in time.

She pulls away reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to wrap herself around him and never let go. But he is hurt, and infected, and she has no idea how far the disease has progressed. They have to leave and get him help before he is turned.

"Hold still," she whispers to him, and he does, letting her draw him into her lap. She swallows a mouthful of blue potion she finds on the filth's body, and her hands glow gold where before they cupped red. When she passes them over his broken skin they leave a trail of warmth in their wake, healing and breathing life, energy, back into him. The bruises fade, and he sighs when a rib, broken, rights itself. The wounds from wicked blades shrink and disappear, and she shudders as she watches the punctures on his arms and neck melt away. Unbidden, the image of the nightmaster vampire, teeth locked into him, rushes to the forefront of her mind and it is all she can do not to be sick.

When she is done, she bends and places a gentle kiss on his forehead. It is cool now, the fever chased away, and his rough hand takes her chin and guides her mouth to his. It is quick and sweet, for they both know what has to be done, and soon she forces herself to draw away a hair's breadth. "We have to get out of here. I don't have any potions for disease, and-"

Vilkas nods, and she helps him to his feet. He is wobbly at first but soon regains his balance, and she draws his arm across her shoulders. "I can walk," he grumbles, "I'm not quite as weak as you seem to think."

"Shut up," she tells him gently, pressing close to him. She is not about to let him go, not again. Not after this. "I am helping you walk out of here, just so I can say I did. Let's go."

He does not argue as she hustles him through the silent fort. When they emerge into the first room through the barred door, he stops and stares in open-mouthed awe at the remains of the fledglings she and her beast left behind. "You did this?"

She watches him, waiting to see if he is disgusted. He has rid himself of his own beast, but she is woven too closely to hers to let it go. "Yes."

"...This one is cracked in half." He kicks the corpse, then spits on it. "Good riddance."

She hides her pleased smile.

"You were amazing, by the way," he tells her as they leave the fort. Dawn is breaking and the snow has stopped. "I've not had the chance to see your Voice before. Damn impressive. I liked the bit where you actually burned a hole through her face."

"Thank you," she chirps, preening. "I thought it was rather inventive, myself." She turns to him then, and traces the line of his strong jaw, brushes a thumb over his stubble. He turns to look at her, eyebrow raised. "I...I'm so-"

"Don't apologize," he says, surly. "It's not your fault."

"I know. But even still." She kisses his chin. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

He says nothing, for Shadowmere has come into view and the horse is watching them with something akin to relief in his glowing red eyes. Elismyra releases her husband and begins to unbuckle the borrowed armor. Vilkas watches, leering at her from beside her horse, and she grins impishly when she catches his eye. "This stuff is awful. There is no way I'm keeping it."

"Please, don't stop on my account."

"You're awfully eager for a man who's just been violated by bloodsucking leeches."

She realizes what she has said too late and flinches, pausing with her feet and legs bare in the wind. "Hircine's ass," she curses, "Vilkas-"

He holds up a hand to stop her, his face unreadable. "I'm not a child, Elismyra," he tells her, his voice stiff and withdrawn. She hates to hear it, hates to see the stony mask behind his eyes. "I don't need coddling."

"But-"

"No coddling. Please. It's worse than your big mouth."

She knows he is trying for her sake, but she also knows neither of them will be sleeping well at all tonight. "I'll try. No promises." She rips the rest of the hides off and stands before him, stripped to nothing, and cocks a hip. "But if you really don't want me to, I guess I can keep my hands off."

"Hmph."

Her smile is smug as she digs her beloved Ahzidal's armor out from beneath the snow. "That's what I thought."

When she is dressed, the enchantments wrapping around her so she feels protected and safe, she tosses Shadowmere's saddle across his back and hauls herself up. Vilkas clambers up behind her, pressed tight to her back in the seat and his arms looped around her waist. She thinks for a moment, trying to decide which city they are closest to, before turning and spurring the black stallion into a ground-eating lope toward Whiterun.

Vilkas will feel safer there, surrounded by people he knows, and the healers at the temple are the best in Skyrim.

They ride in silence, both reflecting on the events of today. Elismyra fights down the shudder that threatens to rise as she remembers the panic, the absolute desperation and the all-consuming rage of her wild ride and her equally wild rescue. She had nearly been too late, had been _so close_ to watching him die before her eyes. She does not want to think about what it would have been like, to see him slump over, still and translucent, his life literally sucked out of him.

She reassures herself by losing her thoughts in his embrace. He is still alive. She got there in time. There is no reason to dwell on what-ifs.

But it had been so incredibly _close_.

_He tasted good._

She knows she will hear that woman's voice in her nightmares for weeks to come. Knows she will see her fangs sunk into the skin of his neck, her throat working as she drank from him. His gasps, his feeble struggles, the punctures on his skin. She will never forget them.

Vilkas forces her to stop and make camp. She wants to keep going, ride until they reach Whiterun and its safety, but he tells her there was another there with him, that he was bitten the first time only that morning and they still have time. Shadowmere is exhausted, having slowed to a plodding walk, and she closes her eyes in guilt at having pushed him so hard.

They stop at Valtheim Towers, which are empty from the last sweep of the city guard. The wind will not reach them there and there is an open ceiling for a fire.

Elismyra untacks Shadowmere and leads him through the large doorway, closing the gate behind him. The first floor is small, but it will do to keep him off the road and out of a thief's paws. She hands Vilkas her gear and packs and he takes them up the stairs in silence. She watches him go, the line of his shoulders stiff under the thin tunic he wears, and knows he is deeply troubled. He reeks of death and blood.

When she is finished with Shadowmere, she follows him. There is already a fire going, crackling in the middle of the room. Vilkas sits by it, chin on his fists as he stares at the flames. Their bedrolls are not far from him.

She notices there are two, when they normally share on the road. She doesn't question it.

She sheds her armor, unbuckling the pauldrons and bracers and dropping them wearily on the floor. He does not react to the noise, does not look up at her even when she changes into sleeping clothes. She knows where his thoughts have gone and she wants so desperately to pull him out of them, into the present, where he is safe and healed and with her.

The she-elf settles beside him gently, careful not to touch. He is wound tight, his jaw clenched and she knows her caresses would be unwelcome. Instead, she asks, "What do you want to eat?"

"I am not hungry."

"Vilkas," she says gently. "You need to eat. I have dried fruit and jerky in my bag, but I can go hunting if you'd rather have venison." Her eyes trace the filthy rags he is still in, notices the holes and the tears and adds, "I have some extra clothes, too. I couldn't find your armor in the fort."

"I'm fine."

She heaves a sigh, frustrated and trying not to show it. He has been through a terrible horror, and he is allowed to be frightened and disturbed. If only he knew such a thing; she knows he knows she can smell the fear on him, but he is still stubbornly trying to ignore it.

"Change," she orders him as she stands, and reaches for her bow. The dragonbone is smooth and warm in her palm, the string freshly waxed. "I'll go find us a deer. Would you like to come?" She offers out of comfort, not necessity; he is a terrible sneak and could not hide from a blind mammoth if he tried, but she is certain the last thing he wants is to be left alone in the dark.

She knows his answer before he utters it. "No," he says, darkly, "I'll stay here."

And because she also knows he does not want her tenderness, she only nods, leaving him to his thoughts against her better judgement. He will talk when he is ready; Vilkas is a Nord man through and through. He does not like failure, loathes relying on someone else to come to his rescue. He is blaming himself for his weakness, for his complacency, and even though it boggles her mind, the things he believes a man should be capable of, she understands she cannot convince him otherwise.

Elismyra looks slyly over her shoulder as she goes. He is still hunched, half his face cast into shadow by the writhing flames, and it hurts her to see him brought so low. She shakes her head, and slips into the night, unseen.

* * *

><p>She returns not an hour later, dragging a large buck behind her. She mutters to herself, irritated at her ineptitude at Alteration; telekinesis would be extraordinarily handy.<p>

Shadowmere whinnies a laugh as she hauls it up the stairs. She glares poisonously at him, and he shows her his teeth in a dark grin.

"Vilkas," she grunts as she staggers into the room. "I forgot my skinning knife. Help me carve it up."

He comes to her side silently, his face stoic and no hint of mirth at her ridiculous struggle in his features. She frowns, and tentatively reaches out to touch his shoulder. He has changed clothes, she notices, and she brushes her fingertips over the cloth.

He flinches away before he can stop himself. She meets his eyes, and sees the anger at himself, and the fear he is trying so desperately to hide.

"Hey," she says to him, keeping close but careful not to brush his skin with hers. "Let's skin it and eat, okay? Give your hands something to do." She gives him her knife, a thin blade with a fox bone handle. He goes to work without a word, refusing to meet her eyes. She narrows them at his back, vowing to get him to talk after their meal. She scrounges around until she finds a bent iron spit, tossed in a corner. She grunts as she painstakingly straightens it, and sets it over their dwindling fire. She stokes it with her own flames, and for a fraction of a second she sees a flailing vampire in the snapping heat.

She blinks, and it is gone.

She waits for Vilkas to finish, watching him work. His jaw is still tight and his brow furrowed, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He is going to break all his teeth if he grinds them any harder.

They cook and eat in silence. The food does not taste of anything but ashes and dust.

It is not until they are completely done that he finally breaks their tense silence. "How did you find me?"

Elismyra reminds herself to tread carefully. "I was with the Dawnguard, in the Rift. They have a priest there, Florentius Baenius. I think he might be mad, because he says Arkay talks to him all the time." She shifts beside him, clenching her hands on her knees. "He told me where to find you. For a moment I thought...I thought-"

"I was dead?"

She nods, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. It shimmers in the firelight, its enchantment giving it a slightly greenish glow. "I rode like mad; it's why Shadowmere can't go any further."

"I suppose I should thank you."

"Vilkas," she whispers, "I'll always come for you."

He looks away, and she is so fed up with seeing the cursed mask of indifference on his face. "Don't do that," she tells him sharply. "Don't shut me out." She wants so badly to touch him, but he looks too much like a cornered animal for it to be welcome. "I want to help you, Vilkas. Please, talk to me. Tell me what happened." The last thing she wants is to make him relive it, but if he doesn't get it off his chest it will build and build there until he can scarcely think for the weight of it.

His jaw works and he will not look at her. She grits her own teeth and waits in impatient silence, knowing how hard this is for him and trying to tell herself that he is not trying to be an ass.

"I was out," he says, "With Ria. Balgruuf was complaining about a giant near Secunda's Kiss that was causing problems for the farmers. We went to kill it. She wanted to stop and camp there for the night when we were done but I wanted to go home. So we left, and they attacked."

Elismyra waits, careful to keep her features schooled into detached interest. He does not want her sympathy or pity. "I don't think they got her. I told her to run when I saw there were six; she did. We weren't far from Whiterun. She should have made it." He swallows. "If I were still a wolf, I could have escaped. But there were just too many, and they had those damned spells that sap your strength." She pretends she doesn't notice him shudder, despite wanting nothing more than to lean into him, whisper in his ear.

Instead, she scoots closer. She does not need her nose to feel the fear radiating off him in waves. It breaks her heart, to see her strong husband so beaten down, so entirely broken and angry at himself for it.

She hates to pry into his pain, but she has to know. Has to hear how long the creatures had him, how long he waited for her, hoping and praying for the moment she appeared. "How long?" she says, and takes his hand, and he does not pull away.

"Three days."

She cannot help it; she sucks in sharply through her teeth, so hard it whistles. They both tense and he moves to pull away from her, but she will not let him, not anymore. She clutches his large hand, rough with callouses, in both of her own.

Elismyra forces him to look at her, ducking in front of his face so his eyes meet hers. "They will never touch you again," she swears to him, fire burning in her voice. She interrupts him when he opens his mouth, no doubt meaning to tell her he does not need her protection. "Not while I still live." Gently, she releases his hand and sits astride him, curling into his lap even though they are of the same height. She takes his face in her hands, delicate and smooth, so unlike his own, and brushes his cheekbones with her thumbs.

He shudders beneath her, and she sees the walls shatter and crumble behind his eyes.

Vilkas does not cry. He is not that kind of man, not the type to indulge in such weakness. Instead, he bows his head, screwing his eyes shut and accepting her embrace, pulling her tightly to him. His knees come up behind her back to pin her against his chest and she lets them, wrapping her arms around his neck and threading her fingers through his thick hair. He shivers again, and she holds him tighter, feeling his thundering heart beat against her own chest.

They do not speak. Elismyra listens to his breathing, hears the great gasping breaths he takes. Her fingers stroke through his hair and down his neck, and she croons and elvish song in his ear. He does not know what it means but that doesn't matter.

They sit by the dying flames for an immeasurable amount of time, her giving him the comfort he will not admit he needs and he letting her do so. It is not something that happens often at all, and many times their positions are reversed. But they are husband and wife, bound together more tightly than anyone could ever hope to understand.

"When we are through in Whiterun," she finally says, her voice quiet and soothing, "I want you to come back with me to Fort Dawnguard. They cannot reach you there."

"No," he says, and she knows he will not change his mind. "I'm no coward. I will not run and hide from creatures in the shadows."

"I know," she says, "I'm not saying you are. But they can teach you things, show you how to best defend yourself should they...come back."

He pulls back to look at her, a dark eyebrow quirked. His face is still troubled but his eyes are clear, and she is so relieved to see it. "You talk as if I don't know my way around a blade."

She snorts indelicately. "Can you shoot a crossbow? No? Didn't think so. Sorine has a few that have been modified by the dwemer; fascinating things. Some of the bolts even explode." She grins at him, and leans in until her lips brush against his as she says, "I can teach you to use them, if you'll come with me."

He tries to scowl but fails. "You don't play fair."

"No," she agrees. "At least visit. Just to see the place; it'll be like a vacation. Or something."

"A vacation with the Dragonborn to a forgotten anti-vampire stronghold in some obscure corner of the Rift. Should be interesting," he drawls. "I'll go, but I cannot stay. I am a Companion first."

"I know." She brushes her fingertips along his jaw and slides away from him. "Sleep," she commands. "I will take first watch."

Vilkas scoffs. "You rode what should have been two days in one night, Elismyra."

"And I'm still pumping with adrenaline. I'll wake you when it's your turn." She has no intention of doing so; the man looks like he hasn't slept in the three days they had had him.

The Nord glowers at her but for once does what he is told. He slides into his bedroll quietly, and within moments she hears his breathing deepen and his heartbeat slow. He is truly exhausted, and she prays Vaermina will leave him well enough alone. Molag Bal and his ilk have tortured him enough already.

She feeds the flames once more and draws her sword into her lap, casting a magelight toward the stairs. It will be a long night.


End file.
